“I don’t — I wish he was dead,” this with bitter contempt. Then doggedly; “But he’s my husband.”

He gave a short laugh.

“By Gad!” he said.

Again, after a while: “Have you been married long?”

“Four years.”

“Four years — why, how old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Are you turned twenty-three?”

“Last May.”

“Then you’re four month older than me.” He mused over it. They were only two voices in the pitch-black night. It was eerie silence again.